


beating hearts

by VerdantMoth



Category: Marvel
Genre: Deaf Clint Barton, First Kiss, Forehead Touching, Getting Together, M/M, Questionable flirting, Sparring, Sparring as foreplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-15 16:07:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19299145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerdantMoth/pseuds/VerdantMoth
Summary: Clint kisses him. Nothing grandiose or spectacular, but not something they haven’t been to building for months spent bleeding and sweating on these mats.Bucky taste like toothpaste and night and desperation, and his beard scraps against Clint’s jaw in a way that makes him feel all tingly.He’s a little surprised Bucky doesn’t punch him again. Instead, Bucky settles his hands on Clint’s hips, pushes until Clint is lying flat and leans into the kiss.





	beating hearts

Clint  _ hates  _ these sessions. He started them, he knows. He can’t be too angry at Bucky when he’s the one who dragged the soldier to the sparring room at ass o’clock one morning when the nightmares were keeping them both up.

Difference is, when  _ he  _ drags Bucky out it’s usually after he’s put his aids in and when he isn’t wearing three weeks of a crap mission and bruises covering most of his body. 

Bucky stands over him, hair tied in a stupid bun, bare-footed and bared chested in sweats that look soft. So soft, Clint wants to rub his face into the knee. 

Bucky kicks at his ankles not hard and not gentle and Clint groans. He rolls over, pushes himself up and he can’t hear it, but goddamn he can feel his shoulder popping. Maybe his collarbone. He’s barely swaying on his feet, arms up, before Bucky kicks his ankles knocking him back off his feet. He lands with a groan, and taps the mat twice. 

Bucky doesn’t see it or doesn’t care. He pucks Clint up by his shirt, nudges him into position and squares up. 

Clint raises his hands in surrender but Bucky doesn’t take it. He tucks his shoulder down, rams into Clint until the blond has to grab his shoulders. He tries, honestly, to dig his knees in. Or something. 

Really, he’s using Bucky to hold him up. Clint’s had three fucking weeks of no sleep and beatings and he just doesn’t have a therapy session in him tonight.

Bucky figures out his game and just to be dramatic flips him over his shoulder so that Clint lands on his back. He can’t see for a moment and he really things something in his back might’ve shifted. 

Bucky sits on him. Sits on him like  _ Barney _ used to and rears back. He punches Clint, punches him with his fleshy fist which is something, and when he goes to strike again, Clint grabs his wrist. 

He saw a move in a film once, some desperate, illogical thing, so he tries it. He grabs Bucky by his truly spectacular beard and tugs until he’s half upright and Bucky’s face is reachable.

Clint kisses him.

Nothing grandiose or spectacular, but not something they haven’t been to building for months spent bleeding and sweating on these mats. 

Bucky taste like toothpaste and night and desperation, and his beard scraps against Clint’s jaw in a way that makes him feel all tingly. 

He’s a little surprised Bucky doesn’t punch him again. Instead, Bucky settles his hands on Clint’s hips, pushes until Clint is lying flat and leans into the kiss.

He doesn’t bite, which surprises Clint. If anything he’s all kitten licks and skimming lips. 

Clint breaks the kiss with a sigh, pushing Bucky. He throws an arm over his eyes and taps the mat with his free hand. Something lands on his chest and he feels the objects. 

“You had my fuckin aids?” Clint growls as he fits them in.

Bucky waits until Clint has them in and on before replying. “Always have ‘em when we spar, you just don’t ever ask.” 

Clint snorts. 

“That was cheating,” Bucky says, “just so you know. Wasn’t fair.” 

Clint shrugs as best he can with a full grown man sitting on his chest. “Yeah well, yanking a dude out of bed in his underwear and throwing him against concrete doesn’t scream fair either. ‘Sides,” Clint adds, “Fair only comes through once a year and that day ain’t today.” 

Bucky’s beard moves and Clint has seen it do that enough to know that he’s frowning beneath it. 

“This ain’t a game, Hawkeye,” Bucky snarls. 

“Yeah?” Clint growls right back. “Then what the hell is it? ‘Cause buddy I’m fucking tired and already beat to hell. This ain’t a nightmare I’m trying to shake,” and it’s a cruel blow, but Clint’s feeling vicious. 

Bucky leans down again, close enough that in the moon Clint can see the swirling storm in grey eyes. There’s  _ worry _ in those eyes. And not the normal “Christ we’re avengers who face death everyday” worry, but the kind that he’s seen in Tony’s eyes when he looks at Pepper, or his boys, or Morgan.

That insane, feral kinda worry that says “I fuckin’ care asshole.” 

“Shit, James,” Clint closes his eyes. “Guess we gotta talk or somethin’.” 

Bucky finally crawls off his hips. He kicks Clint in the ribs, gentle-ish, “Nothin’ to say.”

And yeah, that makes sense. James ain’t ever really been one for conversations. Barely grunts his order to the barista at Tony’s fancy coffee place. 

Clint is too tired to chase him, too sore, but he watches the cotton clad ass  _ saunter _ out. 

\--

They don’t talk about it when the sun rises and they’re wrestling for the coffee pot. 

Or when they’re fighting for the last bagel or the spot on the elevator. 

And it’s killing Clint more than the bruised ribs or the weird twinge in his back or the fractured collarbone. 

So he does what he does and he climbs through the vent. He waits until Bucky is resting, fleshy fingers twitching against his damn bare chest before he drops onto the bed with a thud. 

Bucky bolts up right, hands already reaching for Clint’s neck, but Clint was prepared. 

In two swift moves he powers down the arm with a trick he stole from Tony and twist the other until something pops. 

“It’s fine, just a little creaking,” Clint says. 

Bucky’s grey eyes are dark,  _ murderous _ , and Clint wonders absently if he should be worried the Soldier wasn’t completely eradicated. “Gotta talk, James.”

Bucky twist his head, long hair flipping, “This don’t look like our normal board room.”

“I said talk, not beat our frustrations into each other,” Clint says passively. 

Bucky scoffs and tries to yank his wrist free. He stares at the wall, “Already said we got nothing to talk about.”

Clint leans down, right into Bucky’s space. He only smells like toothpaste tonight, which is a little disappointing in ways Clint doesn’t have time to explore. Bucky’s breath hitches, and Clint maintains eye contact as he reaches between them,  fingers rude over the bulge twitching its way to life in Bucky’s pants. 

Clint raises a brow. It’s an open secret that Bucky doesn’t really do hook ups these days. And Clint has spent enough time in the vents to know he’s not bringing anyone home and he’s not takin’ care of it himself. “You know, Tony told me somethin’ fun the other day. About that arm of yours. Said he wasted the experiment on you, seein’ how you don’t do shit with it.” 

Bucky shoves and Clint’s face. “Creepy.” 

Clint shrugs, kisses him. He’s hesitant, waiting to see if Bucky pushes him away. Bucky’s hand wraps in his hair, hair he needs to trim, and pulls until he’s got a better angle. 

This time he does bite, albeit gently, and not nearly as desperate as Clint feels he should be. Clint waits until Bucky’s tongue traces across his lower lip to pull back. “We gotta talk, James. What the god-damned hell was that the other night?” 

Bucky glares, struggles under Clint’s weight, but the mattress doesn’t really give him enough leverage to flip them one-armed. 

Not that he wants to. 

“Sparring,” Bucky grits out. 

“Normally,” Clint grits right back, “we at least get one night of rest before we pound each other into nothingness.” 

Bucky locks his jaw, eyes blank slates and he goes lax in Clint’s grip. 

Clint knows this retreat. He isn’t letting him get away. He turns the arm back on and lifts himself off. He slumps down to Bucky’s right, balanced on an arm that still makes his shoulder scream. Bucky continues to lay on his back, arms at his sides and eyes blank. 

“As far as first kisses go,” Clint says conversationally, “you weren’t the worst.” 

Bucky twitches, but stays quiet. Clint sighs. He rolls over and steals Bucky’s sheets and says, “Aight, James. Tomorrow then.” 

If Bucky sleeps or doesn’t, Clint gets the best sleep he’s had in months. 

\--

They’re back on the mat, sunlight gleaming through too many windows, but neither of them are really into it. Bucky swings and Clint ducks easily. He kicks at Bucky’s knees, but Bucky steps back from it. 

“Gotta talk,” Bucky grunts. 

Clint sits on the mat, landing with a thud and a sigh, and says “Finally.” 

Bucky sneers at him, but he sits too, an ocean between them. 

“Wanna tell me what the other night was about?” Clint asks.

“You wanna tell me why you won’t take Tony’s aids?” Bucky returns. 

Clint blinks, like he’s genuinely surprised by the question. Then his shoulders slump. “‘Course you know about those.” 

Bucky smirks at him. “You ain’t the only one sneakin’ around this place Clint.”

Clint kicks at the air between them. “Bullshit. Tony showed you when you were creepin’ around his lab while neither of you could sleep.” 

“Why don’t you take ‘em? You could wear ‘em full time, and wouldn’t even feel them,” Bucky insist. 

Clint frowns. “I don’t,” he tries to find the words. “James. Would you give up that arm if Tony could grow you a new flesh one?” 

Bucky shakes his head, hair tumbling in gentle waves from his stupid bun. “That isn’t the same, Barton, and you know it. The things this arm can do? No flesh is ever gonna compete. But you hearing, all the time as good as normal.  _ Better _ than normal? That protects you. Shit doesn’t fall out of your ears on a mission, Clint. They  _ wouldn’t fall out _ and you wouldn’t come home half dead. Or, you know, next time  _ actually _ dead.” 

Clint frowns. “That-” 

Bucky stands up and starts pacing. He tugs his hair from the band, snapping it around his wrist, and dragging his fingers through the dark strands. “Christ, Barton. You should understand this! We ain’t got much, us avengers. Yeah some of us got another family, Steve and Tony and Wanda and all. You and your sister and her kids. But me? All I got is you. You guys. And you’re all shit at takin’ care of yourself.” 

He stalks towards Clint and yanks him up, crowds him into a wall. “See, Tony drinks and Peter’s a kid and Thor is so codependent on his brother, but you? You’ve got less self-reservation than Steve and sometimes he’s almost suicidal in his recklessness.” 

Clint listens, watches the storm in grey eyes, and then cups Bucky’s jaw, nails scratching at the beard. “You’re worried about me?” 

Bucky scowls. “Someone has to be,” but he leans forward and tucks his face into Clint’s neck, hands curling around his waist. “They said the aids fell out or got knocked out or something. And you didn’t stop. Didn’t slow down. You couldn’t hear Nat yellin’ about the truck.” 

Clint lets him talk, his own arms curling tightly around Bucky. And he’s not sure when exactly they became each other’s comfort. Somewhere between long, sleepless nights and too many spars and bougie coffee they both hate. 

“Jesus Christ, Barton. A  _ truck _ ,” Bucky says. 

Clint digs three fingers under Bucky’s chin and lifts it, forcing Bucky to look at him. “James. I made it back, didn’t I?”

“You almost didn’t,” Bucky whispers. 

“But I did,” Clint says, “and then I got to kiss you. So, gonna be real honest here, if it takes a truck to get this thing between us going…” he shrugs. 

Bucky doesn’t think it’s funny, if the sharp teeth against Clint’s collarbone are anything to go by. Clint sighs. “You know how I lost my hearing?” 

Bucky shakes his head. “An accident or something.” 

“Or something. One of the few actual accidents my dad was a part of.” Clint is quiet for a moment, soaking in the heat of Bucky. “I don’t know if it was the right-wrong angle, or the concussion that hadn’t healed, or just a bad day, but he didn’t mean it for once. He genuinely meant just a good natured shoulder bump and I fell. Then I woke up and couldn’t really hear.” 

Bucky shivers against him, but Clint keeps going. “Might’ve been the only injury he every truly regretted. For a whole two weeks I got away with everything.” 

“So you won’t take Tony’s help because of nostalgia?” 

Clint sighs. “No, dumbass. It’s because,” his fingers tightening on Bucky’s waist. “It’s a part of me. Of who I am. I’ve been deaf a long time, long before I was turnin’ tricks with arrows and fighting fuckin’ alien armies. It’s something I’m accustomed to. Changing that,” Clint shrugs, jostling Bucky’s head. “It changes me.” 

Bucky’s metal fingers skim across his hips and he’s quiet for a long time. 

“James, can you go back to the you before the arm?” Clint asks quiet. 

Bucky shakes his head. 

“Would you want to?” 

Bucky kisses him, and this time it’s hard and desperate, but it’s not at all a distraction. It’s an understanding. It’s the beating of two hearts, totally out of proper sync but still in rhythm with each other. They kiss, sharp teeth and demanding tongues and soft lips until they need to breath and Bucky rests his forehead against Clint’s. “You take me with you, Barton. You take me with you so I know you’re safe, and so I can have your back, and you don’t leave my side.”

“Never,” Clint promises. “Now, can we go to bed or you wanna beat a broken body into a sweat-soaked mat again?” 


End file.
